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<title>Fortune's expensive smile is earned by BroadwayBaggins</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23806591">Fortune's expensive smile is earned</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/BroadwayBaggins/pseuds/BroadwayBaggins'>BroadwayBaggins</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Mercy Street (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Inheritance, Letters, and Jed and Henry being clueless in very different ways, featuring Anne having no patience for Henry's shenanigans, not exactly ship related but I didn't know how else to tag it</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 11:22:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>758</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23806591</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/BroadwayBaggins/pseuds/BroadwayBaggins</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Henry receives some unexpected correspondence--and the shock of  his life.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Emma Green/Henry Hopkins</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Fortune's expensive smile is earned</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="">
  <p>“Letter for you, chaplain.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Matron Brannan’s voice was clear and loud enough to cut through the usual chaos of the hospital’s halls. Henry couldn’t help the frown that came over his features as he came to take the letter from her. His family wrote faithfully once a week, but he had already received this week’s missives from his mother and sisters--one of the letters had even includes a sprig of pressed flowers from his eldest niece. He had given Miss Green one of the blooms when she had walked by as he was reading the letter, complimenting the flowers for their smell and color. He hadn’t been able to resist offering her one, and then imagined her carrying it around in her pocket all that day, taking it out that night to run a hand over the delicate violet blossom and see if the sweet scent had lingered--</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He shook his head before he got too lost in thought. The point remained, Henry’s family had already written for the week, and the letter in his hand was on thick, official-looking stationery and addressed in an unfamiliar hand. His frown only deepened. “Who--” he began, but Matron cut him off.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’m sure I don’t know.” Her voice was not unkind, only brisk and firm, for there was a task at hand and she needed to see it through. She brushed past him and onto her next recipient, leaving Henry to stare at the letter in his hand and wonder who in the world was attempting to correspond with him.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Who do you suppose that’s from?” Emma’s voice in his ear was surprising but welcome, her voice sounding just as quizzical as Henry himself felt. He gave a shrug and tucked it into his pocket as best he could--it was slightly bulky but he hoped the contents, whatever they were, wouldn’t be too damaged by a few wrinkles.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I haven’t the faintest idea,” he admitted, “and I’m afraid it’ll have to wait, at least for now.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The afternoon passed quickly as Henry moved from one task to another--lifting men to and from their beds, praying with wounded men and visitors alike, penning two letters--one to a mother, one to a sweetheart--chopping firewood, and helping Miss Hastings to lay out one body for burial. The letter remained quite forgotten until several hours later, when Emma reminded him of it. He had been standing with her and Miss Hastings in a small semicircle, taking tea and enjoying a rare respite from the unending chaos. Doctor Foster stood nearby, checking on an amputation a few beds over, but even he looked curious as Henry drew the letter from his pocket.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It took him a few moments to open it, still trying to place the handwriting. His eyes skimmed the page as the writer introduced himself--a lawyer from Albany, one whose name Henry did not recognize. The crease between his eyebrows, borne out of confusion, only grew deeper as he read on. The introduction was followed by condolences, then the name of an uncle Henry only vaguely remembered and who he was certain he only met once. And then, below that...</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Henry blinked several times, convinced that he had interpreted the words wrong--surely exhaustion was beginning to get to him! Surely he could not have read it properly--there had to have been a mistake, he thought resolutely. A mix-up of some kind, regrettable but ultimately forgivable...</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“What is it?” Emma asked, forgetting herself for a moment and putting her hand lightly on his shoulder. Henry was in such a state of shock that he made no effort to move away. “Henry...Chaplain Hopkins. What’s the matter? Is it bad news?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Is it?</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Chaplain,” Jed said softly, joining their little group. “What does it say?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Henry found he couldn’t speak. He could scarcely breathe. He wished he could sit down.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Oh, for God’s sake,” Anne Hastings interjected. “Give it here.” She reached out her hand and, in a gesture that was somehow firm and gentle at the same time, plucked the letter out of Henry’s grasp. Her keen eyes scanned the paper quickly, finally widening as they reached the bottom of the page. “Heavens.” she murmured, looking up at Henry with what might have been newfound admiration in her eyes.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“What is it, Miss Hastings?” Jed asked, not comprehending.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“It would appear our chaplain is to be congratulated,” Anne said briskly, passing over the letter for the doctor’s perusal. “His life, it seems, is about to change.”</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A few days ago I reblogged an ask meme on tumblr that basically said "tell me what fic you'd like to see me write and I'll write some of it!" middlemarch prompted me with a fic where Henry inherits a fortune, and this was what I came up with. I didn't go into too much detail because my knowledge of 1860s inheritance laws--or any inheritance laws for that matter--is nonexistent. However, if there's interest, I could see myself continuing this because I think there would be some fun things to explore.</p>
<p>Eagle-eyed readers who have stuck around for a while will know that I've written about Henry's nieces before. I expect Annabel sends flowers to Mansion House as often as she can to make her uncle smile.</p>
<p>I could not resist Anne inserting herself into the situation by stealing the letter. I'm not even sorry. :P</p>
<p>Title lovingly borrowed from Emily Dickinson</p></blockquote></div></div>
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